


Still In Love With All Your Sins

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Costume Kink, F/M, Masturbation, Naked Male Clothed Female
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8822713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: The one where they're going through a box of old photos, Kate reveals a fondness for Clint's old circus costume, and things get a little out of hand. Or taken in hand, rather.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snows/gifts).



> Look, this is really not what I should have been working on tonight. I have like five or six exchange assignments due before Christmas and none of them are anywhere near ready, but, real life was a bit on the odd side lately and writing fell by the wayside and I needed to get my head back in the game. So. OTP porn. 
> 
> Somewhat inspired by [this piece of art](http://when-it-rains-it-snows.tumblr.com/post/108227946193/kate-has-loads-of-questions-where-was-this-how) drawn by the incomparable when-it-rains-it-snows. 
> 
> Also, this is unbeta'd, because yes, assignments, deadlines, and I shouldn't even have spent the time I did spend on finishing it, let alone spend more time on editing. Plus it's past 2 AM and I have work tomorrow. Therefore, I'm throwing it at y'all as it is, fresh from the press, and this time all mistakes are definitely mine. XD
> 
> Title is from "Big Machine" by The Goo Goo Dolls.

There are certain concessions to make in a relationship. Clint was married. He learned as much. You figure out the issues you want to press on, the ones that you'll be willing to give on, and meet in the middle. Among Kate's demands is that she'll deal with his total lack of interest in the state of his home, most of the time, but she'll reserve the right to make him at least make an effort when it starts driving her up a wall. Every once in a while, following intervals that remain a mystery to Clint, she'll make him tidy and clean. 

Today they're cleaning out his cupboards and drawers, with the goal of making room to sort away more stuff that's usually just lying around where Clint drops it. Or that's been the plan, anyway; turns out Clint's rather attached to his knick-knacks, and there have been _discussions_. Past tense, though, because at some point they unearthed a few boxes of old photos, and even Kate's not above being distracted by such a wealth of potential blackmailing material. 

She holds up a team photo from the nineties, roundabout, and scowls, her expression almost accusing. "A cowl, Clint. A purple cowl. And a miniskirt. That costume is a _disgrace_." 

Clint snatches the photo from her hand. "I'd argue that the circus costume was much worse." 

"Oh no," Kate says. She stabs a finger at his clavicle and emphatically shakes her head. "You're wrong. The circus costume was a flimsy piece of nothing designed to showcase each of your major muscle groups _just right_. No one gets to diss the circus costume, not even you." 

For a moment, Clint squints at her, trying to decide whether she's serious or pulling his leg. The latter option flies out of the window when her eyes actually glaze over a little as she riffles through the box again, a little deeper, down where the circus Polaroids live. She's already found a few, and yes, on second thought, she did seem rather taken with them. That is an interesting little epiphany, and Clint has every intention of making bank on it. Kate's not the only one who enjoys putting a healthy, embarrassed blush on their significant other's face. 

He leans back, arms crossed behind his head, and grins at her. "So I guess now's a good time to tell you that I kept it?" 

Kate's head flings around to face him fully, and whoa, he thought that was a thing that only happened in cartoons. 

“You have _not_ ,” she says, and her tone is somewhere between accusatory and offended. 

Clint has the time of his live, teasing her like that, and no intention to hide that. “It's in a drawer somewhere, upstairs. Should I, you know, go looking?” 

Her breath stutters a little, eyes widening and, at the same time, darkening, and ohhh, Clint didn't even think his suggestion might have that effect. She licks her lips and nods, claps his hand in hers and pulls them both to their feet. Carrying the photo in her other hand, she leads the way up the stairs and watches – sitting on the bed, lower lip now sucked between her teeth – while he's going through aforementioned drawers. Finding the costume takes a little longer than he'd like – his system for clothes is basically _shove into whatever drawer still has room and forget about it until you need them_ and he hasn't needed that costume since he was roughly twenty – but he emerges victorious, the pink-and-purple piece of nothing help up like a trophy. 

Kate gives him a dorky thumbs up while he sits down next to her, and he notices the side-glances she sends to the photo that's laying on the bed and nudges her. “Hey should I, like, be jealous?” 

She smirks, challengingly. “Has anyone ever told you that you made for a really pretty twink?”

“Yes,” Clint says, holding her eyes and doing his best to look indignant. “Plenty of people. Please don't be one of them.”

“Would you maybe consider,” she says, ignoring his complaint, and Clint already knows what's going to come out of her mouth next. “To try it on? See if it still fits?” 

Clint bunches the fabric in his fingers and cocks his head, barely withholding from putting a finger to his lips for added dramatic effect. He's bulked up a bit in the ten-and-then-some years since he last wore this, and he's near positive it won't fit anymore. But next to him, Kate's breathing a little faster, lithe body pressed to his, and he's becoming convinced that's not actually the point. 

He leans in to kiss her, because wants to and because he can, and then nods. “Sure. Let's find out.” 

With that, he stands up and beelines it to the bathroom. He doesn't allow himself to turn around and look back at her, because if he does he won't make it into the costume, he'll turn around and pick her up and carry her to the wall and neither of them will be wearing any clothes for the next half an hour or more. 

And so he undresses in the bathroom, folding his jeans and t-shirt and putting it onto the toilet seat, which is something he only ever bothers to do when he's nervous and buying time. Strips naked and has to inhale deeply a few times, pinch the base of his cock, before he steps into the old costume. To say it still fits would indeed be overstating matters somewhat – the straps of the quiver are listing to the side around his pecs, and the pants are straining at the seams, more so since he's indeed getting hard – but he decides it'll do for a few minutes. He gives himself a last once-over in the mirror and then decides himself presentable. 

When he returns to the bedroom, she's practically bouncing with giddy excitement, the circus Polaroid clutched to her chest. It's adorable. And hot. It's really kinda hot, but then again, there are very few occasions when he doesn't find her damn near irresistible; all she as to do is stand in a room and draw breath, basically. Comes with being in love. He went through that particular condition before. 

Kate's eyes roam up and down his body, lewd and slow and like it's the first time she's seen him naked – well, nearly naked – and she wants to savor the moment, file the sight away in minute detail. Her gaze halts when it reaches his crotch, the erection that's stretching the fabric just that much closer to its limits, and swings up to his face. 

“Excited, are we?” she sing-songs, and he shrugs his shoulders. 

“It's tight,” Clint says, and by now he's the one who's smirking. “Putting pressure on all the right places.” 

She puts the photo away with a wistful sigh and walks over to him. “Ahh, well, if that's the excuse you want to go with.” 

Her expression faux-thoughtful, she walks around him in a circle, like a designer surveying her work hugging the body of an actual model for the first time. It makes him shiver, stand a bit straighter. Makes his chest go a little tight, and his dick grow harder still. He nearly jumps when she stops her examination and stands behind him, arms wrapped around his middle, her forehead pressed to his back on the side that's not covered by the quiver. 

“Touch yourself,” she instructs, the words whispered against his skin. “Through the fabric. Don't get it out yet.” 

His hand moves and it's like he's been set on autopilot, the command is bypassing his brain and he's reacting on instinct, executing it immediately. He groans when he presses the heel of his hand to his hard cock, the cheap nylon and polyester rough on his sensitive skin. He bends backward, deeper into her embrace, and feels her arms tighten around his body. 

“Careful,” she warns, gripping his wrist, just this side of too hard. “Or you'll tear it.” 

Clint's hand moves a little lower, because he's not sure he can behave himself and obey when it comes to teasing his cock, instead rubbing at his balls. He can be plenty patient when he's in the field and eying up a target, but outside of those exact circumstances, his impulse control is rather subpar. 

“Please,” he breathes out, voice a hoarse whisper. “C'mon, let me, _please_.” 

“Okay,” she says, and her voice has gotten deeper too, colored with arousal. “Okay, take it out. Stroke yourself. Just. Make it good.” 

He doesn't have to be told twice, but he does manage to exert a certain amount of care, because if he rips the costume they won't be able to do this again and that would be _tragic_. There's already left a wet spot on the front where he's started leaking, precome collecting and darkening the brightly colored fabric, but that can't be helped, and he's sure the thing will survive a hand-wash or two.

Kate has to go on tiptoes to be able to rest her chin on his shoulder and watch but apparently that's a sacrifice she's willing to make. She even manages to push herself up a little bit further and nibble on his earlobe, which she _knows_ drives him straight out of his skin. 

Her hand his still loosely holding his wrist, and she leaves it there while he works himself in steady, languid strokes, her grip tightening whenever she decides he's going too fast. By now, she's pushed up against him from hip to shoulder, moving with him as he rocks back and forth with each stroke, thrusting into his hand, then relaxing, over and over again. He's not sure how long it takes, that way, before pleasure pools low in his belly, making him pant and give up on any semblance of rhythm. She doesn't hold him back this time, instead lets go of his wrist all together and presses her palm to his crotch, low on his hip, as far down as she can reach. She's nipping at his neck, teasing little bites that don't hurt but divide his attention, offering a counterpoint to the straightforward bliss of the orgasm that's begun to roll through him, thus drawing it out. 

He's breathing hard by the time he's done coming, his hand and stomach covered with it, his head swimming. He's sways a little on his feet, weak in the knees, and Kate's hugging him close and taking what she can of his weight while she's pressing little kisses to the back of his neck. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and she sounds actually _grateful_ , like she's the one who just got off, and a little bit stunned by it. Then, louder, she asks him if he's okay, if he can stand, which he answers with a nod. 

Next thing he knows, he's having a wad of tissues pressed into his hand, and yeah, well, okay, he's probably a bit gross. He wipes himself clean, shrugs off the quiver and peels the costume past his hips, down his legs and all the way off, throwing it in the vague direction of the laundry basket – all credit for the fact that he owns one in the first place belongs to Kate, by the way. 

She still clicks her tongue in disapproval and takes a second or two to glare at him, but quickly seems to remember that only one of them got off and there's still work to be done here. She searches for his gaze, and, when their eyes meet, nods to the bed. 

Clint's all too willing to comply, jumping onto the mattress with a grin. He's not twenty anymore and he'll need a few minutes before he'll be able to go again, but there's other things to pass the time with until then. Kate rolls her eyes, but fondly, and kicks off her shoes, sheds her jeans and t-shirt, before she joins him.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
